


You Are The One, For Me, For Me, For Me, Formidable

by GayAvocad0



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-The Final Problem, Rosie is 6, Sherlock Speaks French, and he uses this skill wisely, emotionally constipated sherlock, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27229534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayAvocad0/pseuds/GayAvocad0
Summary: He had come up with the conclusion that to stop feeling like these ridiculous, pining, unrealistic, stereotyped women in these stupid movies his mother liked to watch, he had to find a way to express the disgusting feelings that had been pestering him for years. He then had immediately dismissed the options that included John actually finding out about the feelings, asking himself the question 'How could I tell him without him understanding what I mean?'It was quite a tricky one…Or: Sherlock decides to act on his feelings for John in the most efficient way he could find and ends up declaring his love for his best friend in French.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 121





	You Are The One, For Me, For Me, For Me, Formidable

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!!!! So! I apologize in advance for possible bad grammar, English is not my first language and though I re-read what I wrote several times I might have missed spelling errors.  
> Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this little bit of fluff nonetheless, the world needs it right now.

He had studied the problem from every angle and thought of dozens of solutions, some of them including his or someone else’s death. He had thought about it during hours and hours, at every time of the day (and the night). Finally, he had come up with the conclusion that to stop feeling like these ridiculous, pining, unrealistic, stereotyped women in these stupid films his mother liked to watch, he had to find a way to express the disgusting feelings that had been pestering him for years.

That had narrowed down the list a bit.

He then had immediately dismissed the options that included John actually finding out about the feelings, asking himself the question 'How could I tell him without him understanding what I mean?'

It was quite a tricky one…

After three days of thinking and pondering whether the options were too risky, he finally had a plan. He came up with it in the middle of the night, but it was worth so much more than his sleep.

It was utterly brilliant. Simple but brilliant. And honestly, he was a little embarrassed that it took him three days to come up with it.

He decided to try it immediately in the morning. He had a cup of tea ready for John when his friend arrived in the kitchen with Rosie. John cast him a suspicious look – probably expecting to be drugged – but thanked him drank it nonetheless. Rosie was babbling about something that happened the previous week as John urged her to eat her breakfast so she wouldn’t be late to school.

When Rosie did finish eating, John grabbed her tiny schoolbag and took his daughter’s hand in his. Sherlock did his best to conceal any trace of fondness that might have appeared on his face – he had a reputation to maintain after all – and cleared his throat.

“John,” he called as his friend was leaving the kitchen.

“Yes?” John turned around and Sherlock started second-guessing his wonderful plan. He considered just giving up on his plan and leaving the country instead. That seemed a little bit more feasible at the moment.

“Um,” He had to. He would feel better after. He had to. “Je ne pourrais pas vivre sans toi.”

There was what felt like a never-ending silence, and Sherlock was beginning to panic a little. He was sure that John didn’t speak French, but what if he did? What if his great-uncle was also a French artist?

After what Sherlock would swear was 10 minutes filled with awkward tension but was actually closer to 10 seconds, John spoke up.

“Right, er,” he dismissively shook his head. “Can you pick Rosie up from school today?”

Sherlock nodded and John left with a “thank you” that was drowned in all the chattering Rosie was doing.

Sherlock resisted the urge to strike a triumphant pose because he was Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes  _ did not _ strike triumphant poses.

It had gone perfectly well. John hadn’t seemed to understand a single word of what Sherlock had said, and he hadn’t seemed too interested in finding out what it meant, probably writing it off as one of his weird social experiments.

Sherlock felt fantastic. He had said ‘I couldn’t live without you’ right in the face of his best friend without looking like an idiot nor damaging the precious friendship he had with him.

He stopped analysing the interaction and started a completely new (and relatively useless) experiment.

The smile he had on after John left didn’t go away for another five hours.

-

“Je n’ai jamais ressenti ce que je ressens pour toi.” ‘I’ve never ever felt what I feel for you’, Sherlock says when John comes back to the flat.

“J’ai parfois peur que tu m’abandonnes. Je ne pense pas que je pourrai le supporter.” ‘I sometimes fear you might leave me. I don’t think I could handle it’, Sherlock says when John sighs exasperatedly at the detective’s latest experiment in the kitchen.

“J’ai toujours pensé que l’amour n’existait pas mais, aussi stupide que ça puisse paraitre, tu m’as convaincu du contraire.” ‘I’ve always thought love wasn’t a real thing, but as stupid as it sounds you’ve convinced me otherwise’, Sherlock says when John tells him goodnight before going up the stairs.

“J’aime absolument tout chez toi.” ‘I love absolutely everything about you’, Sherlock says while they’re eating.

“J’aimerais pouvoir te dire tout ce que je ressens dans une langue que tu pourrais comprendre.” ‘I wish I could tell you everything I feel in a language you’d understand’, Sherlock says while John is typing on his laptop.

He was always careful not to just say ‘je t’aime’. It was a simple and famous enough sentence that John probably knew. He didn’t want to risk it.

This went on for a week. Every day, Sherlock would get off his chest what he needed to get off his chest. Sometimes, he disgusted himself with all the stupid things he said. He felt like a 12-year-old kid, but thankfully he was the only one being able to judge his behaviour. And the thing was actually working. He felt less bothered by his feelings when they were out there.

At some point, he decided that since he was already acting like a teenager who felt the need to express their feelings loudly, he might as well go all the way.

So, he started playing love songs in French in the flat at random times.

It was a little bit riskier because John could easily look them up and translate the lyrics, but he didn’t seem too interested in doing that. He simply raised an eyebrow at his flatmate when he opened Spotify for the first time, and quickly got distracted by Rosie dancing in the middle of the sitting room.

He was tempted to put on that Charles Aznavour song that had parts in English to see if John would react but never quite got the courage to do it.

He had to reduce a little bit the speaking French part when Rosie took an interest in the language and started asking him to teach her words so she could understand what he was saying. He ended up teaching her animals' names which pleased her as much as it pleased him. She learned French words and Sherlock could keep letting out how he felt about John without anyone in the flat understanding what he was saying (except if he called john a ‘vache’ but he didn’t plan on doing that. For the moment, at least).

Everyone seemed content with the situation.

-

“Are you ever going to tell me why you’re doing this?” John said after two weeks since the start of Sherlock’s “project”. “At first I thought this was kind of an experiment or a thing you were doing for a case, but it doesn’t usually last that long.”

Sherlock immediately tensed but he hoped John’s poor observation skills would prevent him from noticing.

“Mhm?” Sherlock took a sip of the cup of tea John had put on the table next to him and focusing back on his microwaved eyeballs (John thought it was for a case but really, Sherlock was just bored).

“That word you said right after thanking me. And all this French nonsense you’ve been blurting out for the past three weeks, what is it for?”

Right.

Sherlock should have seen it coming. Now that he thought about it, it should have happened ages ago. And it would have been more logical for the questions to come after a long and full sentence, not after he called John his ‘coeur’ after thanking him. Normally, Sherlock would not call John silly names such as ‘sweetheart’. He never understood people’s fascination with calling their loved ones strange names, but then again, there were a lot of things he didn’t understand or see the point of until John.

“Sherlock? Are you purposefully ignoring me or are the melted eyeballs you’re poking at just more interesting than me?” John said sounding mildly amused.

“Rien n’est plus intéressant que toi, John.” Sherlock couldn’t help but respond to John. He kept his tone nonchalant and made sure to sound slightly bored not to tip his friend off.

John didn’t say anything. There were a few seconds of silence before Sherlock heard his own voice coming from where John was sitting. “Rien n’est plus intéressant que toi, John.”

Sherlock turned to face John who was sitting on his chair in the sitting room so fast that there was no way he would be able to mask the slight (okay, not so slight) panic he felt rising in him.

“Why did you record it?” Sherlock said too quickly to sound calm.

“To translate it,” John said without looking at him. “I want to know what things you did were so awful that you can’t even tell me in English. I bet you burnt this jumper I liked…”

As a matter of fact, Sherlock  _ had _ burnt this, frankly ugly, jumper. But he’d rather have John know this than have John translate what he just said. Granted, it wasn’t the most embarrassing thing he’d said, and he could probably find a perfectly good explanation for this particular sentence if John ever managed to translate it. But it would still be somewhat awkward.

“It's not about you.”

“You said my name, Sherlock.” John replayed the recording to emphasise what he was saying.

He had. He never did for fear that John might get a little too interested but apparently this time, he had.

Sherlock did a quick simulation of all the possible outcomes depending on how he acted. He figured he might as well come clean and translate it for John before he does it himself. It’ll appear less suspicious.

“Don’t bother looking for a way to translate it. I simply said that nothing was more interesting than you.” Sherlock avoided John’s gaze and once again and turned back to his eyeballs.

But as the silence stretched, Sherlock was forced to look at John.

The doctor was staring at him with a bewildered look on his face.

“What?” Sherlock snapped.

“Nothing,” John smiled tentatively. “I just think you’re pretty interesting yourself.”

Sherlock huffed and turned around to put something in the fridge. And to cool his flaming cheeks.

-

“And how do you say ‘vegetables’?”

“Légumes,”

“And ‘chicken’?”

“Poulet,”

Rosie was sitting across from him at the kitchen table. It was a calm Saturday, John was out buying groceries and had given Sherlock the mission to look after Rosie. When she saw him sit at the kitchen table she went there too and started asking for the translation of random words in French.

“Is it true you’re speaking French because you did bad things and don’t want Dad to know?”

Sherlock scoffed. “No, did your father tell you this?”

“Yes,” Rosie nodded. “I asked him when you started doing this and he told me this. Can I have biscuits?”

Sherlock nodded and turned around to look for the box that’s too high for Rosie to reach, and sat back at the table.

“Thank you,” She stuffed her mouth with the much too sweet biscuits. “I don’t think he’s right either.”

“You don’t?” Sherlock said distractedly.

“No,” she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I think you’re scared of telling him something.”

“That’s ridiculous, I’m not scared of John.”

Rosie was looking at him intensely while chewing on her biscuits. Kids always made Sherlock uneasy and smart kids were even worse. And Rosie was too smart for a 6-year-old child.

“You’re hiding something, but I don’t think it’s something you broke like Dad says.” Sherlock tensed and looked anywhere but at Rosie’s face. She gasped and stood up on her chair resting her hands on the table. Her eyes had this excited glint Sherlock sometimes caught on his own face when he was on the brink of solving a case. “You are!”

“No, I’m not hiding anything Rosie,” He said quickly. “And don’t stand on that chair like that, I don’t want to have to bring you to the hospital because you fell and broke your arm.”

She completely ignored him.

“Yes, you are!” She pointed accusingly at him. “You told me yourself! ‘If someone doesn’t look at you when they answer a question, they’re probably not telling the truth’.”

Teaching this already too-smart-for-her-own-good child how to observe and deduce was  _ such _ a bad idea.

“Am I right? Will I be a good detective?”

Rosie’s smile was wide, and she had an expectant look on her face. Sherlock sighed and decided to put his pride aside to please the little girl he was not so secretly fond of.

“Yes, all right you got me. Your deducing skills are certainly much better than your father’s.” He winked and her smile widened even more.

“Yes! I’m the best!” She giggled.

“That you are,”

“Can we watch a film?”

Sherlock nodded and moved to the sitting room with Rosie, amazed at how quickly the matter of Sherlock hiding something was dropped.

He’ll never understand kids.

-

Well apparently, Rosie hadn’t completely dropped the matter. Because when John came back downstairs after putting Rosie to bed, he took one look at Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, sat where Sherlock removed his own feet to make him room, and cleared his throat.

“Rosie told me she _deduced_ something about you. She was quite proud of herself,” John said then chuckled and Sherlock turned his face to hide his smile.

“You know, when you started speaking French, I wasn’t even that surprised that you were fluent in another language.”

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, wanting more than ever to avoid any dangerous conversation.

“She’s right. You never look at me when I bring it up.”

“That’s not true,” Sherlock quickly redirected his gaze towards John and raised an eyebrow. “See, I’m looking at you right now,”

John slowly shook his head with a soft smile on his lips.

“You’re impossible,”

“So I’ve been told,”

John relaxed further on the sofa, Sherlock’s eyes went back to the ceiling and they stayed like that for a while. But Sherlock knew that John wanted to say something and that he was thinking of how to say it.

“I have a theory,” John finally said at the same time Sherlock mumbled “Just say what you have to say, John”

John cleared his throat. “My theory is, um, er, that you’re embarrassed or scared,” Sherlock scoffed but John simply raised his voice and kept talking, “and since you’re rubbish with these human things called _feelings_ , you simply express yourself in a way you’re sure no one can understand, and in doing so, you can keep up this sociopath image you’re so attached to.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. This was way too close to the truth for his comfort.

“Just tell me, Sherlock. You obviously want to, and this whole month of French-speaking didn’t solve anything.”

Sherlock stayed silent. He’d love to say it was his course of action to throw John off his trail but in reality, he just didn’t know what to do about the situation.

“Come on Sherlock don’t act like a child,”

Maybe he could make a run for it.

“Sherlock,”

Sherlock closed his eyes. Was he seriously considering blurting out what he had hidden from John for years? Maybe if he said it fast enough, John wouldn’t catch what he said and leave him alone.

Sherlock breathed in deeply.

“Look Sherlock, I don’t want to force you to tell me something you don’t want to but I really think that for once, you should just-”

“I love you,”

John’s eyes were wide, and Sherlock couldn’t help but note the resemblance with a goldfish. He waited a little and seeing that John simply kept staring at him with a distraught look on his face, he got up to go hide in his room. But before he could go far John was gripping his left wrist.

“What did you say?” John said softly.

“I am not saying it again, you heard me perfectly.” Sherlock weakly tried to pull his wrist out of John’s fingers.

“No, I didn’t, say it again,”

“Yes, you did,”

“No, I didn’t, say it in French if it makes it easier.”

Sherlock figured things couldn’t get worse. He turned around to face his friend, his wrist still trapped in John's right hand.

“Je t’aime,”

John smiled fondly and brought him closer, wrapping his free arm around Sherlock’s waist. Meanwhile, the detective’s heart was busy trying to beat out of his chest, and his brain seemingly unplugged itself the second John’s face got closer to his own than it had ever been before.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, his voice embarrassingly high for a grown man.

John’s soft features melted into panicked ones. “I- I- Did I read the situation wrong?” He started to pull away. “I’m sorry, maybe you meant it in a platonic way, I shouldn’t have assumed-”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly to stop John from removing his arm from his waist. He surprised himself by sounding extremely calm when his brain was filled with frustrated screaming, prompting him to get as far away as possible and as close as he could at the same time.

“No, I shouldn’t have assumed or no, you didn’t mean it in a platonic way?”

“Both.” They both looked at each other in the eye without saying anything, long enough for the silence to be considered awkward. “But mostly the second one…” He said it so quietly he was sure that if John’s face hadn’t been inches from his, John wouldn’t have heard it. He turned his gaze downward, avoiding John’s.

He saw the doctor smile tentatively from the corner of his eyes and felt the hand that previously held his own captive, settle gently on his cheek.

“I know it’s embarrassing for you to be experiencing emotions like us ordinary humans do, especially when it concerns someone else, but can you please look at me?”

Sherlock did and tried his best not to look away again, though it was really tempting.

“Can I kiss you?” John said quietly.

Sherlock was seriously considering fleeing the room. John wasn’t holding him in a vice grip, he could go whenever he wanted to. And right this moment, he simply couldn’t believe all of this was happening. It had to be a trick of his mind or John wanting to experience only to realise later that, no, that was not what he desired. It was simply too unbelievable.

And yet, it was tempting enough that Sherlock made up his mind to nod and breathe out a small “yes”.

Before John put his lips on his, Sherlock never understood why people seemed to think kissing was such an important thing. After all, it was simply connecting your mouth with another human being’s.

But the second John’s lips started moving upon his own, all his beliefs seemed to be tossed out of the window.

All he could feel was John’s hands on his waist and face, all he could taste was John’s warm lips, all he could smell was John’s cologne, all he could think was _John_. It was the most overwhelming thing he’d ever experienced but he couldn’t help but feel it was not enough at the same time. He felt warm and safe, but also as if he was doing the most dangerous thing he’d ever done.

When John pulled away, he realised he had closed his eyes and apparently stopped breathing. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen that made him feel all these things.

John was grinning. “Are you okay?” He sounded amused. “You look a little… dazed.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m… I’m fine,”

“Good.” John looked as nervous as Sherlock felt. “Because I’d like to do it again, maybe, sometimes, if you’re okay with it…”

“Yes,” Came out of Sherlock’s mouth _much too high_. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” He said again -managing to sound like the adult he was and not like a 13-year-old boy this time. “I’d like that.”

Though the nervousness didn’t leave his features, John’s smile widened, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back. He felt giddy with happiness and at this point, it was completely useless to try and keep a neutral expression on his face.

John pulled him back into a kiss, much shorter this time, but as exciting as the first.

“Right, now that that’s settled,” John took a serious tone Sherlock wasn’t sure he liked. “Will you ever tell me what everything you said in French for the past month means?”

Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders, and brought himself closer to him, smiling smugly.

“Peut-être. On verra.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my poor attempt at writing a decent fic and sticking around until the end!!! I appreciate it very much. I'd appreciate even more, comments, advice or kudos. It would warm my whole being to hear what you thought about this fic and what I can do to improve my writing skills.  
> The Charles Aznavour song I referenced in the title and the fic is called "For me formidable". It's an old song my mum likes a lot it kept popping up in my mind when I was writing the fic so...  
> While we're talking about French songs, I highly recommend "Amour censure" by Hoshi. It's quite a complicated time for the LGBTQIA+ community here in France (don't get me wrong! I'm lucky to have been born in this country and I know it but things have not been exactly great recently) and hearing a song like that come on the radio feels good.  
> Anyway, I hope I managed to bring a little bit of joy in your day, whoever you are.  
> Again, thank you so much for reading this!!!!


End file.
